


dos gardenias

by orpheuslament



Series: sangre en los dientes [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Blow Jobs, Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Dumbasses, Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, First Time, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Lack of Communication, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Sexual Tension, Sugar Daddy Hannibal Lecter, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Yearning, i mean not really but lowkey, pouty cannibal, sappy serial killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 09:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26969524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orpheuslament/pseuds/orpheuslament
Summary: dos gardenias para ti / que tendrán todo el calor de un beso."He wonders, worries, frets that what he did was a mistake. That maybe he’s been reading the cues all wrong, that what happened was nothing but a sudden moment of vulnerability. That it won’t happen again. He aches at the thought.And yet, he thinks,the way Hannibal looks at him sometimes."
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: sangre en los dientes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939858
Comments: 69
Kudos: 242





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> please read [por una cabeza](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26661238) and [encanto rojo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26791201) before reading this one for context purposes!

**iii. dos gardenias**

_“Keep staring straight into my eyes. It feels_

_like you’re not moving, the way when, dancing, the room will suddenly fall away.”_

_Richard Siken_

To say they haven’t touched would be a lie. There has been the occasional hand on his shoulder, fingers grazing against the back of his neck while they’re fixing his collar, an unintentional brush of skin against skin when they’re putting away dishes. It’s just that Hannibal hasn’t _touched_ him ever since what they are now calling the Kitchen Incident, and it’s driving Will insane. 

It’s been four long, excruciating, unbearable days. It’s as if he’s been allowed one bite of the forbidden fruit and now it’s dangling right in front of him, just out of his reach. He can feel the pull and push of every single atom separating their bodies, as if they’re mocking him, taunting him. 

It’s Friday. They’re supposed to meet up with Helena and her husband on Saturday. Asides from reminding Will of this very fact, Hannibal hasn’t commented on it. Hasn’t initiated any impromptu dancing lessons, either. It’s an odd thing, seeing Hannibal skirting around a topic so blatantly. He hasn’t brought it up himself, because of course he hasn’t. If Hannibal doesn’t want to talk about it, neither does he. Add it to the towering pile of unspoken things building between them. 

As much as he tries to get his mind out of it -and God does he try-, his overactive imagination ends up getting the best of him. He wonders, worries, frets that what he did was a mistake. That maybe he’s been reading the cues all wrong, that what happened was nothing but a sudden moment of vulnerability. That it won’t happen again. He aches at the thought. 

_And yet,_ he thinks, _the way Hannibal looks at him sometimes_. All wide and vulnerable, eyes flickering the same way they did when they went to see Verdi’s Macbeth a month ago. Forts down, doors open. A rare and unique gift. Just for him.

Hannibal is careful around him. Tentative, almost nervous, as if he’s trying not to cross a line only he can see, tiptoeing on the edge of it. In Will’s honest opinion, there isn’t a single line between them that they haven’t completely obliterated. Still, he waits, he observes, calculates his next move. 

Helena calls them after lunch to confirm their assistance and announce she has already acquired tickets for the four of them. He listens as Hannibal insists on paying her back, and laughs as they apparently agree on having them over for dinner in return for the gift. He likes Helena, they both do. She’s smart and charming and witty enough for Hannibal to actually consider her a friend. 

Silverio, her husband, on the other hand, would be of more use stashed in their freezer. There is nothing wrong about him in particular, it’s just that he’s _unimaginably_ unpleasant. He has the bad habit of making inappropriate jokes at the worst of times and raising his voice in order to assert dominance. The few times the four of them have been in a room together, Will could practically feel the amount of restraint it took Hannibal to not puncture his carotid artery in the spot. 

He’s behaving himself, and Will appreciates that. It would do them no good if their acquaintances suddenly started to turn up dead, even if he personally thinks they’d be doing Helena an enormous favor. 

Will looks up from the book he’s reading when he hears Hannibal hang up with a sigh.

“So, a double date,” Will says with a scoff. 

Hannibal looks and sounds utterly defeated. “It would seem so, yes.”

Will lays his book face down on the table and turns his body so he’s facing Hannibal. He’s standing in front of the windows, phone still in his hand. The light behind him brings out the sophisticated silver in his hair, makes it gleam against his temple, and his face is contorted in what dangerously resembles a pout. Will can’t contain a laugh. 

“You know, you could have just said no.” 

Will’s eyes follow him as he circles the room to sit on the opposite side of the couch. 

“That would have been rude,” Hannibal leans back on the comfortable cushions perfectly arranged behind him.

Will stares as Hannibal withdraws into himself, surely cataloging every way he could serve her deceased husband’s tongue to Helena.

“You’re not gonna kill him, Hannibal,” Will smiles, picking up his book again. 

“No one would need to know,” Hannibal turns his head towards his shoulder so he can look at him, “and we wouldn’t have to endure any subtle homophobic remarks during dinner.” 

“Considering your flair for the dramatic?” he laughs, “I highly doubt that.”

Hannibal makes a small, wounded noise. 

“I can be subtle.”

“I’m sure you can,” Will turns the page before realizing he hasn’t registered a single word he’s read, “you just don’t want to.” 

Hannibal lets out a resigned breath and rests his hands on his stomach. “Another time, then.”

“Another time.”

They sit side by side for a while in silence, the wine they shared with lunch making them sleepy. Will can feel the natural heat of Hannibal’s body emanating out of him, even with the space he has deliberately left between them. A primal, untamed part of him wants nothing more than to curl up next to it and be swallowed by flames, fall asleep next to the devil until he decides he has no use for him anymore. 

Will has never been big on self-preservation. He knows he has been doomed from the start, nothing but broken glass and too-bright candles in the cathedral of his mind. When he sold his soul, he did it with full knowledge of the consequences. A deal that has left him with more blood at his feet than he bargained for. In return, he got a heart. A bloody, savage, _beautiful_ thing, pumping on his hands or pressed between his teeth. 

He finds hellfire way more soothing than he should. 

Hannibal shifts, suddenly restless, and asks, “Have you decided on what to wear tomorrow?”

“Hm, no,” Will gives up on pretending to read, “you know I don’t give that sort of stuff too much thought. Why?”

“So _I_ can decide on what to wear.”

“What, so we can match?” Will raises his eyebrows, amused. 

“God, no,” Hannibal winces, “nothing so vulgar. But I do want to make sure we don’t clash.” 

Will barks out a laugh, “You know what, you can just choose for me.”

“Would you be okay with that?” 

“Sure,” Will gets up from the couch in one swift motion and stretches his limbs, his shirt riding up as he does, “I’m in your hands.” 

He almost misses the way Hannibal’s eyes slightly widen as he stares him down, pupils eclipsing golden irises. He captures the moment, locks it up inside his mind for future dissection. 

“Good,” Hannibal’s voice is suddenly lower, coated in something dark and mellow.

Will nods once and turns to leave, face flushed and fingertips prickling with wayward desire.

-

When he walks into his bedroom that night he finds a full outfit carefully laid down on his bed, expensive-looking watch and all. A deep burgundy suit with a thin black shirt underneath. _Blood under moonlight,_ he thinks.

He runs his fingers across the fabric, marveling at the almost velvety feeling of it. It’s new, tags still attached. Hannibal must have gotten it for him on one of his solitary escapades to the city. The lapels have a delicate satin finish to them, making them glint against the dim light of the room. It fits perfectly, he doesn’t even need to try it on to know that. He smiles when he realizes there’s no tie in sight. Thank God for small mercies. 

He hangs it up, careful as to not wrinkle it, and smooths the trousers down with a delicate hand anyway, for good measure. 

He strips down to a t-shirt and boxers and crawls into bed. Sleep finds him easy, these days. He dreams of a calm, dark stream and firm hands against his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late and short update! i decided to divide this part in different chapters so i could at least upload something. im hoping on finishing writing it this week so keep ur eyes peeled for that.  
> again thank you so much for reading, comments and kudos will automatically grant you my undying love.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If I open up my wounds again, would you stay?_  
>  _Yes,_ is the answer, _always._

Next day greets him with clear skies and a light breeze. He dips his toes in the water during his daily trek alongside the seashore and finds it somewhat warmer than on previous days. He might take Hannibal’s offer of a day at sea soon, see if the man is as graceful on a teetering boat as he is on dry land. The mental image of Hannibal struggling to stay on his feet as the waves push them around keeps him entertained all the way home. 

Breakfast is pleasant and uneventful. Hannibal keeps it simple and serves him a beautiful omelette with fresh vegetables and perfectly cooked ex-cop bacon. They take their time eating, indulging in a lazy morning before they have to start getting ready. They’re leaving for Montevideo after lunch. Hannibal has booked a room in a charming, small hotel in Ciudad Vieja so they don’t have to endure the long drive home at night. He wants to get there early enough so they have time to drop their luggage, get changed and roam around the historic district for a couple of hours before they have to meet up with Helena and Silverio for dinner. 

Will packs his new suit, a change of clothes and his toiletries, and before he realizes, lunch is over, the dishes are clean and dry and Hannibal is loading their bags into the car. 

Hannibal drives because he knows Will enjoys drifting away and taking in the scenery. They take turns choosing the music, much to Hannibal’s dismay, and Will reminds him that even fake marriages are built on compromise. He feels Hannibal shift in his seat at the comment, and ponders on whether he should ask. The low hum of the car lulls him into a light sleep before he can decide. 

He stirs awake just as Hannibal is pulling into the parking lot. 

"You slept for an hour," Hannibal's eyes flicker with masked concern when he spares him a glance, "have you not been sleeping well?" 

"I've been sleeping better than ever," Will rubs at his face, trying to push the drowsiness away, "I was just comfortable is all." 

Hannibal purses his lips and says nothing, focuses on finding a free spot to park instead. 

"I'm  _ fine _ , doctor," Will looks at Hannibal and can make out dark circles under his eyes. Anyone else wouldn't have noticed, but he has spent years studying every dip and crease in Hannibal's face. He knows with exactitude which muscles twitch when he’s angry, how his mouth quirks when he’s genuinely smiling, recognizes every single mask he wears as if they were his own. He can navigate it from memory, "have  _ you _ not been sleeping well?" 

“I had a restless night.”

“Something on your mind?”

“Plenty.” 

“Care to enlighten me?”

“Perhaps later,” Hannibal answers as the car comes to a stop. 

The hotel is tucked between old buildings and narrow cobblestone streets, something you might not notice if you didn’t know it was there. The reception looks more like the entryway to a colonial-style mansion, all white tiles and tall arches, plush couches and armchairs scattered around the room. 

A tan, young man with a broad smile greets them at the counter, and Hannibal gives him their fake aliases without missing a beat. They have been living as Hermann and James Chapelle for a while now, a wealthy retired couple simply enjoying the best of their lives together. Will can’t quite get used to it yet. 

He shows them to their room, a large, open suite with hardwood floors and ample windows looking out to the city. It follows the same theme as the rest of the establishment, decorated with delicate antiques and upcycled furniture. It’s cozy and intimate, a space clearly meant for lovers. Will takes in the single queen-sized bed and swallows. 

They are not strangers to sleeping together. He remembers grimy motels and too large bodies laying side by side on a twin size mattress. Remembers nightmares about towering waves and empty, cold eyes and waking up to an arm around his waist. Remembers Hannibal burning up with a fever while all he could do was stare, how he kept bleeding through his bandages, no matter how many times he changed them. Two dying men holding each other all through the night, fearing one of them might disappear once morning came. They haven’t talked about what that meant either. 

Part of him relaxes significantly when he spots a perfectly good looking pull-out couch against one of the walls. The remaining part feels oddly disappointed. 

When he comes back to himself Hannibal is moving around the room with intent, unpacking their luggage, and laying out both of their suits on the bed. Will, who was still hovering near the door, crosses the room to join him. Hannibal’s is charcoal grey with a delicate herringbone pattern, a white linen shirt underneath. Something less ostentatious to what he’s used to. The red and black of the outfit he’d chosen for him compliments it perfectly, a balance of bold and subtle, dark and light. They do look good side by side. 

Hannibal checks his watch and informs him that they have three hours to spare before dinner if he’d like to get changed and go for a walk. 

Will grabs his clothes and walks into the bathroom. There are no doors separating it from the main room, just a wall between them to preserve any semblance of intimacy. The shower is bigger than some of the apartments he has lived in. 

He lets the water run while he undresses, grabs a towel and steps inside. He lets his body go lax under the stream, his neck and shoulders feel a bit sore after his nap during the drive and the warm water does wonders to soothe them. 

A sharp flash of want strikes him when he pictures trained, relentless hands working out the knots of his back, traveling down his spine, and then lower. He hurries washing up before he can allow the fantasy to develop any further. 

The suit, as expected, fits like a glove. Hannibal had insisted on getting his measurements taken with a tailor a few months ago, and he had the suspicion the man had simply just memorized them for future purchases. 

He wipes out the condensation on the mirror. The white scars on his face stand out against his flushed skin. He brushes his still damp hair back, unruly curls poking out behind his ears, and figures that’s as good as it will get. 

When he emerges from the bathroom, Hannibal is sitting on the bed, already dressed. All sharp angles and poise. 

He sheepishly extends his arms, “How do I look?”

Hannibal stands up slowly and cautiously crosses the distance between them. His hands automatically reach for his collar, fussing with it until he decides it looks acceptable. This close, Will can see with clarity the way Hannibal’s eyes take him in. If he didn’t know better, he would say he seems almost shy. 

His dexterous fingers unfasten the first two buttons of his shirt, and Will goes still. 

“Dangerous,” Hannibal says, voice deep and low. 

“I suppose I should take that as a compliment.” 

“It is,” Hannibal leans back to look at him, “red looks good on you.”

“Sure,” Will huffs out a laugh, “especially this shade of red. If it were up to you I would be covered in blood all the time.”

“Yes,” Hannibal answers bluntly. 

Will’s breath hitches and he forgets himself for a moment, “Is that the only way you want me?” 

Hannibal tightens his jaw, “I want you in any way you might offer.” 

After a second in which he lets the words hang in the air, he turns around to walk away. Will grabs him by the arm before he can take another step. Hannibal looks down to where he’s holding him, the barest hint of surprise in his expression, and then up at him, curious. 

Will closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “We need to talk about it.”

“Talk about what?”

“Don’t play dumb Hannibal, you’re very bad at it.” 

He can see the moment the mask slips into place. He retreats and, in a moment, they’re miles apart. A solid brick wall between them. 

“There is nothing to talk about,” Hannibal says calmly, “it was a very vulnerable and emotionally charged moment. You followed your impulses, nothing more.”

“You think it was a mistake?”

“I think your mind was clouded.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Will,” Hannibal mutters, tone almost pleading, “do not do this. I will gladly place the knife in your hands if you wish to hurt me, but please, do not do this.”

“Hannibal, what—”

“We should go,” he effortlessly tears away from him, “there is a bookstore I would like to visit before it closes.”

And with that, he’s gone.

-

They walk arm in arm in charged silence, blending in with the crowd of locals and tourists. Families on their way home, couples out for a romantic evening, groups of friends laughing and basking in the last rays of sunshine. The city bursts with life and sound and Will allows himself to get lost in it. Hannibal is warm and firm next to him. It’s easier to touch when he’s slipping into the skin of someone else, when they are both playing a part for the rest of the world. He doesn’t want it easy right now. The lines between their perfectly constructed characters and who they are when they’re alone have never been so blurry. He wants this, all of this and more, not only when they feel they have something to prove. Still, he leans into him any moment he can. If this is as much as he’s getting, he’ll make the most of it. 

The frail-looking owner of the bookshop greets Hannibal like an old friend. Will walks around the cramped store, aimlessly running a finger through dust-ridden manuscripts. He makes out parts of the conversation they’re having thanks to the very basic Spanish he’s picked up during their stay. Something about hand-stitched pages and original binding.

He’s leafing through a 1926 edition of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations when he hears Hannibal call for him. 

“Mi amor,” he says while beckoning him over with a hand, “come take a look at this.”

He is standing over a hard-cover copy of The Iliad, flicking the pages with careful fingers. The book is clearly old but has been kept in almost immaculate condition, the letters and illustrations clear and stark against the aged yellowish paper. He stops when he apparently finds what he’s been looking for. 

“Patroclus tending to Achilles’ wounds,” Hannibal whispers, never looking away from the engraving. 

The scene brings back memories of Hannibal sitting on the edge of a bathtub, weak and subdued, and Will kneeling between his legs, changing the bandages on his stomach. Smell of blood and antiseptic, hooded eyes fixed on him and a silence so solid he could feel it pressing against his skin. 

Hannibal had given him every opportunity to leave. He could have left him unconscious on the beach after the fall, could have left him to bleed out, waited until infection took over and let him fade out. Even after they’d made it to relative safety, Hannibal had simply stitched Will up and asked for nothing in return. It occurs to him that he is still waiting for him to run. 

Will looks up, reads the unspoken question there. 

_ If I open up my wounds again, would you stay?  _

_ Yes,  _ is the answer,  _ always. _

“It’s beautiful,” Will is not looking at the book, “are we taking it?”

Hannibal meets his eyes with uncertainty. “Do you want it?”

“I do,” he says, and stares as Hannibal visibly softens.

“Then we’ll take it.”

They walk out of the bookstore with The Iliad and a third edition of  _ Cien años de soledad  _ on a brown paper bag. Hannibal talks about how he has never read it in the original Spanish before and is excited to do so now while they make their way back to the hotel to drop their purchases, voice deliberately light-hearted. Will doesn’t listen to a word he says, thinking instead about the flash of fear he saw in Hannibal’s eyes after they kissed in the living room, and wonders how he could have ever been so blind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these two are so fucking stupid i swear to god,,,  
> anyway this just keeps getting longer than i wanted it to but its ok we're vibing with it  
> thank you for reading!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will sees everything. Every secret, lie and infidelity coiling in the darkest parts of a person’s psyche, and when Hannibal looks up to him from where he’s standing near the bar, sees a devotion so deep he fears he might drown in it.

Helena and her husband are already waiting for them outside the restaurant when they get there. She greets them with an excited “ _¡Mírenlos!_ ” and kisses them both on the cheek. 

She looks beautiful, long black hair cascading down her shoulders. The emerald green of her dress compliments her skin tone perfectly and she smiles like she could not possibly be happier to see them. 

Hannibal, ever the gentleman, bows down to place a kiss on the back of her hand. 

“Stunning as ever, Helena,” he regards Silverio with a courteous nod and nothing else, “thank you again, for inviting us.”

“Nada, nada, it’s a pleasure to see you,” she turns to her husband, “¿verdad?” 

“It’s always nice to hang out with other men,” Silverio lays a heavy hand on Will’s shoulder and he does his best to conceal a wince, “ _mujeres,_ you know?”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows, “No, I’m afraid I do not know.”

“Yeah, I suppose you don’t,” Silverio says with a snort, eyes going back and forth between them, “anyway, shall we?”

Hannibal stays back as the couple makes their way into the restaurant, hands clenched at his sides and expression deliberately neutral.

Will touches him on the arm and leans into him to whisper, “Easy now.”

“Will.”

“No.”

“Just this once.”

“ _No,_ ” Will laughs, “let’s just go have dinner.”

He reaches down to interlock their fingers together before he has any time to think about it. Hannibal stills for a moment and raises his eyebrows inquisitively, before letting himself be dragged through the double doors of the establishment. 

They hold hands until it becomes clear they can’t possibly eat if they don’t let go. The absurdity of it makes Will giggle, and he wonders when in the hell did he become a person who _giggles_. 

Helena does most of the talking, which is always appreciated. Will simply observes as she and Hannibal talk about music and theatre in rapid Spanish, and smiles politely every time they swap languages to try and include him in the conversation.

_(“¿Cómo que no han visto Bodas de sangre?”_

_“Nunca se ha presentado la oportunidad, me temo.”_

_“La tienen en cartel muy seguido en el Teatro Nacional, no hay excusa que valga. James, tell Hermann he needs to take you to the theater more often.”)_

Silverio keeps to himself except to snap at their waiter and make a rude unprompted comment about their age difference and presumed dynamic. He catches Hannibal holding his knife with slightly more force than necessary both times, and manages to calm him down with a hand on his knee. It stays there until they leave the table.

-

The roads around the theatre are closed off, allowing for more space to mingle and, if desired, dance. Some of the concerts take place inside, the ones with entire orchestras and numbered seats, but most of it revolves around the outside stage. The place is bustling with laughter and scattered conversations, the band loud and lively. It manages to overwhelm him for a second, the mirrors in his brain taking in way too much information at once. He feels the urge to cover his ears like he did when he was a kid but represses it quickly. Hannibal seems to sense his discomfort immediately and comes up behind him to place a steady hand on the small of his back. He allows himself to lean into it as a woman checks their tickets and wishes them a very pleasant evening. 

“If you wish to leave at any time, you simply have to say so.”

“Stop being nice to me, it’s weird,” Will says without any malice, “just get me something with alcohol in it and I’ll be fine.

Hannibal smiles and ducks his head, “Of course.”

Helena and Silverio are a few steps ahead, greeting friends and shaking hands. She introduces them both when they approach and Will forgets their names immediately. Hannibal’s hand never leaves its place, which manages to both calm him down and set his skin on fire. 

"If you'll excuse me," Hannibal says, addressing the small gathering, "I will go fetch us drinks."

He feels cold and unmoored the second he leaves his side. Helena moves to link arms with him and it’s unexpectedly soothing. 

She smiles as he watches him walk away, “You are so lucky to have each other.”

Will chuckles. He's not sure _lucky_ is the right word for it. It feels more like something fixed, something that has always been sewn into the fabric of the universe. He knows with certainty they were destined to find each other, that this is where they always were supposed to end up. If he believed in something as cruel as fate, this would be it. It's recomforting, in a way, knowing Hannibal is as tangled up as he is.

"I mean it," Helena continues, "he looks at you like you are the only thing in the world."

"Does he now?" Will searches for him amongst the crowd and finds him easily, as if gravity was pulling him towards him, gracefully maneuvering his way through the pit of dancers.

"Do you really not see it?"

Will sees everything. Every secret, lie and infidelity coiling in the darkest parts of a person’s psyche. He sees the way Helena is trying to save a failing marriage, sees how two of the musicians are definitely having an affair with each other, and when Hannibal looks up to him from where he’s standing near the bar, sees a devotion so deep he fears he might drown in it.

"Maybe I haven't been paying enough attention."

Hannibal comes back balancing two champagne flutes and a whiskey on the rocks for him. 

“My ears were burning,” he says as he hands them their glasses. 

Will thanks him with a quick peck on the cheek and delights at the way Hannibal’s breathing seems to falter for a second. It gives him a rush of power he has to visibly shake off before he turns to the conversation. 

“I was just telling James what a lovely couple you make,” Helena looks at them, incredibly fond, “it’s not every day you see two people so visibly enamored with each other.” 

Will stares down at his drink to avoid the intensity of Hannibal’s gaze on him and reconsiders his profiling career, given everyone seems to have come to the same conclusion before he has.

Helena looks sad, suddenly, eyes darting to where her husband is, completely unaware of her. The men of the group had retired to one of the sitting areas as soon as they could, nursing respective bottles of beer.

Will considers, not for the first time, just letting Hannibal go at him. If they play their cards right no one should suspect a thing. Hell, maybe he’ll do it. Maybe they can do it together. The thought excites him more than he cares to admit. The memory of vicious teeth tearing apart a dragon’s throat and a bloody embrace makes him shiver. 

They drink and gossip. Will gets introduced to more people and he’s as polite as he’s capable of. Hannibal never gets too far, circling around him in an almost territorial manner. When one of Helena’s acquaintances makes the mistake of asking him if he’s single, Hannibal holds him by the waist, presses him impossibly close to him, and looks as if he’s about to start snarling at the poor woman. Will shouldn’t find it as amusing as he does. She seems to get the hint.

“Dearest,” Hannibal says once their glasses are empty and out of their hands, the pet name rolling comfortably off his tongue, “would you mind terribly if I left you behind for a moment? I believe I promised our friend a dance.”

“Please,” he says with an overexaggerated flourish, “knock yourselves out.”

Hannibal smiles politely and turns, offering his arm up to Helena. She waves at him as they disappear into the whirlpool of dancers.

He will never tire of watching Hannibal move. Whether he’s dancing, hunting, cooking or simply walking into the room, it doesn’t matter. Nothing but grace and purpose in every twitch of muscle, as if he expects the world to rearrange itself around him with every step he takes. He rages like a forest fire, this terrible, cruel, destructive monster. How he ever thought he could contain him, he doesn’t know. Let entire civilizations perish and empires crumble at their feet, none of it matters if it means he can have him. 

Helena’s bubbling laughter soars above the music as Hannibal spins them, her feet barely touching the ground. His scar pulls right as he smiles, never taking his eyes off them. 

This too, he covets. The part of Hannibal that makes his friends laugh, that teaches him how to dance, that leaves food outside for the pack of stray cats living near their house, that staggers when he touches him. A very well-tailored person suit slowly morphing into another layer of skin. He has seen darkness with way more clarity than anyone, and now he gets to see light. They have been changed. They’ve changed each other.

They part ways after three or four songs with a bow and wide grins plastered on both of their faces. Helena reaches him quickly, announces that her shoes are already killing her, and excuses herself so she can go sit down for a bit. 

Hannibal appears in front of him just as the band starts playing a bolero. The stage lights dim and the dance floor empties significantly, leaving only a handful of couples behind. 

Hannibal extends his hand, “May I?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Will teases, and takes it.

Hannibal guides them to the center of the crowd and snakes an arm around him, pressing him against his chest so that their cheeks are almost touching. He breathes out a short laugh when Hannibal discretely leans down to smell his hair.

“Creep.”

“Indulge me,” there is an audible smile in his voice, “I like your shampoo.”

“Yeah,” Will snorts, “because it’s the one you buy for me, you controlling freak.”

“Forgive me for wanting to take care of you.” 

“Is that what it is?”

“Of course,” he hesitates before speaking again, “and maybe I do enjoy pretending I have any semblance of control over you, too.”

Will cranes his neck back to look at him, their feet moving by their own accord. It’s slow and sensual, all small steps and hips swaying together.

“You do,” his eyebrows crease, “have control over me, I mean. You always have.” 

“You still fail to understand,” Hannibal sighs.

“Explain it to me, then.”

Spanish words tinged with melancholy swirl around them. Everything except the man in front of him melts into a cacophony of light and color and they rock back and forth to the sound of music.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to set you free. I required nothing else from you. But that was before.” 

“And now?” 

“Now I find myself craving more.” 

Will feels weightless, like all the air has suddenly left his body. “What, exactly, do you crave?” 

“You, by my side, mostly,” the hand that was pressed between his shoulder blades moves to lay just under his ribs, “in any way you might allow.”

Hannibal flips him around with ease, chest to back, his lips grazing the side of his neck. 

“I believe I might do about anything to keep you with me. So no, I am very much not in control. I’m at your complete mercy.” 

Will turns to face him. “In freeing me you have caged yourself.” 

Hannibal looks as if he’s bracing himself for a blow. He’s expecting Will to reject him, to leave. 

He kisses him instead. 

It’s as gentle as the first time they did this, but steadier, less cautious. Hannibal goes still as both his hands come up to cup his face. Not moving, not breathing, eyes closed shut and lips slightly parted.

“I want this,” Will whispers against his mouth, “I want to be here,” he kisses him again, “I want you.”

Hannibal looks down at him and it’s as if a switch has been flipped. He grabs him by the hip bones hard enough to bruise, reaching for his lips again with a shaky exhale. Will’s knees tremble when Hannibal’s tongue pushes past his teeth, desperately searching for his own, and has to throw his arms around Hannibal's neck for balance, fearing his legs might give out under him. 

Will knows there's bound to be people staring by now, and it surprises him how much he doesn't care. Let them. Let everyone know who tamed this beast. 

He bites at Hannibal's lower lip lightly and smiles at the way Hannibal launches to devour his mouth in return.

They reluctantly part to breathe. Foreheads touching, mouths red and bruised, air coming in and out of their lungs in short bursts. 

"Whatever game you're playing—" Hannibal's voice comes out weak and wrecked. 

Will shuts him up with a quick kiss. "No games," he shakes his head, "I promise." 

The bodies around them stop as the song comes to an end, parting with coy nods and enthusiastic applause, but Will just holds Hannibal closer to him. He rests his head on his shoulder and closes his eyes. 

"I could never put into words what you make me feel," Hannibal sighs, slowly running his hands up and down Will’s back.

"Then show me," he lifts his head in order to leave a trail of kisses up the man’s neck, “after this, take me back to our room, and show me.”

Hannibal pushes him back just enough to tilt his chin up and run his thumb across his lower lip. 

Will fixes his eyes on him. “Okay?”

“Anything,” Hannibal mutters, breathless, “for you, Will, anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just one more chapter left!! thank you for sticking around 💘
> 
> some translations for those who might need them:  
> "¡Mírenlos!" - Look at them!  
> "¿Cómo que no han visto Bodas de sangre?" - What do you mean you've never seen Bodas de sangre?  
> "Nunca se ha presentado la oportunidad, me temo." - The opportunity has never presented itself, I'm afraid.  
> "La tienen en cartel muy seguido en el Teatro Nacional, no hay excusa que valga." - They show it very often at the National Theater, you have no excuse.
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You have carved a space into my body only you can fill."  
>  Hannibal laughs softly, more a fluttering of air than anything else, “And in turn, you have done the same.”  
> "I believe that makes us even." _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we got some nsfw content on this one, nothing too wild tho, but heads up in case you're not into that.

They take a taxi back to the hotel, even though the night is mild and they both know it would take barely twenty minutes to get there on foot. The rest of the festival was nothing but a blur of wandering hands and Hannibal’s voice in his ear, muffling every other sound around them.

Will keeps his eyes fixed out the window as the driver takes them through cramped and steep streets, the evening mist making the pavement glisten under the street lights. Hannibal is uncharacteristically quiet, exchanging only pleasantries and definitely paying more than necessary when they get out of the car. He stays silent until the door to their room is closed behind them.

"If you have changed your mind—" 

“Don’t,” Will shuts him up with a raised finger and makes a beeline for the minibar. He finds it delightfully well-stocked and takes a swig straight out of the miniature bottle of bourbon.

Hannibal stares at him cautiously as he closes his eyes and lets the liquor burn all the way down his throat. If Will didn’t know where to look Hannibal would seem entirely unaffected, but he catches the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way he can’t seem to hold his gaze for more than a couple of seconds, and is comforted by the knowledge that neither of them know exactly how to navigate this situation. Violence is easier for them; they know violence, they’ve done violence. This, this gentle, tentative, honest thing they’re doing now, is something entirely new. 

“It’s just—,” his voice comes out raspy, “I’ve never—”

“I know.”

Will huffs and brings a hand up to grab at his hair, pulling tight. He feels his entire body vibrating but it has way more to do with anticipation rather than nerves. It all feels both impossible and inevitable.

Hannibal walks towards him slowly, the same way he did when there was a dead man on their kitchen floor and blood on his hands. They’re both trembling by the time he reaches him.

"Touch me," Will says, firm and commanding, then softer, "please."

Hannibal takes an unsteady step to close the remaining distance between them, and it feels almost forbidden, seeing him like this. Unsure and pliant and so very human. It opens the dams for a new wave of affection to wash over him. Icy and blistering hot at the same time. His lungs burn as his first instinct is to fight against it, and then lets it go, lets it swallow him entirely. 

"It terrifies me," Hannibal's hand comes up and lingers inches away from his face, his steady surgeon fingers shaking imperceptibly, "the thought that the moment I reach you, you might slip through my fingers. Like mist."

"I am right here," he takes the doctor's wrist and turns his head so he can lay a gentle kiss to his open palm, "flesh and bone. You've seen to that."

Hannibal sucks in a breath, eyes shining like melted amber, "And yet. You have been a ghost to me for so long, Will."

“We have never been parted,” Will mutters against his skin, “not really. You’ve haunted me every day since we met.”

“Three years I spent with only a memory of you beside me, you can’t blame me for being wary.” 

"You're worried I will leave,” Will lifts his head to take him in, “even now."

"It's not an irrational fear. Given our history."

"No, it's not. But I can't, not even if I wanted to." 

"Does that upset you?" Hannibal asks with a furrowed brow. 

"Not anymore," he moves to kiss down his wrist, feeling the raised scar tissue there against his lips. It all feels like lifetimes ago, the rage, the betrayal, the ugly tangled mess of feeling Hannibal has always sparked in him. Another reminder of how deep their belonging runs, how much of their history is marked on both their skins, "you have carved a space into my body only you can fill."

Hannibal laughs softly, more a fluttering of air than anything else, “And in turn, you have done the same.”

"I believe that makes us even." 

Hannibal tilts his chin up with his free hand and guides him to his lips, still maddeningly gentle. Hannibal tastes like alcohol and parsley and something entirely unique to him, and it sparks more hunger at the same time it satiates it. Will rearranges their bodies so that they’re pressed chest to chest and rolls his hips once, marveling at the way Hannibal gasps in response. A shiver runs down his spine as he’s suddenly overcome with arousal, every single one of his nerve endings burning under Hannibal’s touch. Hannibal answers in turn by grabbing him by the hair and angling his head so their mouths slot perfectly together. They lose themselves in a slow dance of tongue and teeth until they are both breathless and light-headed. 

He’s still panting as Hannibal grabs him by the collar and walks him backward until he hits a wall. Hannibal’s mouth is back on him immediately, and Will decides there are way too many layers of clothing between them. Hannibal steps back to allow him to slide his jacket off his shoulders. It falls to the ground unceremoniously, immediately forgotten. He takes his own off, tossing it in the general direction of a chair, and is toying with the buttons on his shirt when Hannibal slips a leg between his, pressing hard against his groin. He hisses and closes his eyes shut, hips moving by their own accord, grinding against the other man’s thigh. 

“Tell me,” Hannibal whispers, nuzzling his cheek, “what do you want?”

“I want—,” he interrupts himself with a moan as he feels open-mouthed kisses on his neck, a tease of sharp teeth against his skin, “God, Hannibal, anything.”

“No,” Hannibal’s voice is low and raspy, almost a growl, “tell me.”

Will takes a deep breath to compose himself, or as much as he can with Hannibal relentlessly nipping at the curve of his throat and surely leaving bruises behind.

“On your knees,” he says, “I want you on your knees.” 

A slow grin spreads across Hannibal’s face as he tears away to fix his eyes on him, dark and sultry. 

“Do you want me to pray for forgiveness? For absolution?” 

Will trembles as Hannibal starts unbuckling his belt. “I am no savior.”

Hannibal untucks his shirt from his pants and slides a hand under it, fingers caressing the scar on his abdomen with adoration. He feels goosebumps rising on his skin at the memory of Hannibal marking him in such a visceral manner. 

_ It excites him to see you marked in this particular way.  _

He pushes Bedelia’s voice and the odd mix of residual fear and desire the thought brings him out of his head, focusing instead on the warm and solid feeling of strong hands traveling upwards his chest. 

“And I am no penitent,” Hannibal drops to his knees in one swift motion, nails leaving faint red marks on his sides as he does, and looks up at him, “yet here I am, pleading.”

Will gives in the temptation to run his fingers through silky graying hair. Hannibal sighs when he scrapes his scalp lightly and moves closer to him, hands coming up to grab at his thighs. He starts lifting his shirt up and leaves hot, wet kisses down his stomach, stopping just before the waistband before making his way up again. Will curses under his breath and cants his hips upwards, desperate for touch, friction, anything. 

“I could devour you whole,” Hannibal mutters against his skin as deftly fingers finally,  _ finally _ , unbutton his trousers.

“You’re ruining the moment,” Will says between labored breaths.

“Am I?” Hannibal smirks up at him, infuriatingly smug, “your body seems to disagree.”

He presses a hand to the steadily hardening line of his cock, as if to prove his point, and Will’s knees buckle under him. His fingers unintentionally tighten around Hannibal’s hair, pulling his head back hard enough for it to hurt. 

He looks down to apologize —or to do it again, he hasn’t decided yet—, and freezes when he finds instead Hannibal looking up at him, throat bared, mouth parted, eyes watering. The image of complete worship. He’s struck by a surprising burst of tenderness at the sight of the man, moves his hand to Hannibal’s reddened lips and presses his thumb against his teeth. Hannibal bites at it, lightly, before pulling back to leave feather-light kisses on the pads of his fingers. His eyes stay on him, burning red under the warm light of their room, liquid fire and gold. He feels like he might drown in them at any moment. He would go willingly, put his head back and never try to come up for air again.

He understands, suddenly, the concept of martyrdom. He has killed and died for those eyes before, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat. 

“Where did you just go?” Hannibal’s gentle tone coaxes him out of his trance, and he finds himself absentmindedly stroking the edge of his jawbone. 

“Nowhere,” he gives him a soft smile as Hannibal leans his head on the palm of his hand, “I’m still right here.” 

Apparently content with his answer, Hannibal finishes unfastening his pants. He pauses before pulling them down. “May I?”

“Please,” it’s Will’s turn to plead, “yes, fuck, please.” 

Hannibal hums and, before he can register any of it, both his trousers and underwear are pooling around his feet. He leaves a trail of kisses down from his hipbone to the inside of his thigh and then up, finally reaching his aching cock. The tickling of his breath against sensitive flesh is enough to drive him mad. Soft velvety lips close around the tip of it without warning and it’s too much, his entire body boiling from the inside out. Will whimpers and braces himself against the wall. 

Hannibal looks up at him, awaiting a command. Will nods once, trying to control his erratic breathing, and Hannibal takes him in his mouth as if he was Holy Communion. 

He’s so worked up already that the sudden burst of engulfing heat is almost enough to push him over the edge. He fights against it, closes his eyes, bites his lips and prays to whatever’s listening he can manage to last more than two minutes. He wants the moment to stretch as much as humanly possible, wants Hannibal as close to him as two bodies can be until the universe collapses in on itself. 

It’s fruitless. 

Hannibal works hard and fast, his mouth unbelievably warm around him, frantic and desperate in a way he’s never seen Hannibal before. 

His body betrays him when Hannibal decides to pull out almost entirely before diving in again in one quick motion and swallowing him whole, nose pressed against his skin. He opens his eyes, looks down, and the sight of swollen lips and impossibly blown-out pupils does it.

He comes with a broken sob, buried deep in Hannibal’s throat and a hand tangled on his hair. 

He’s barely aware of Hannibal helping him step out of his clothes and guiding him to sit on the bed before his legs finally decide to give up on him. Hannibal unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off his body while leaving gentle kisses along his shoulders and collarbones.

Will leans down on the bed with a sigh; his bare, flushed skin sliding marvelously against fresh sheets. He feels the mattress dip as Hannibal joins him, still fully dressed and hard. He blindly reaches for him and rolls to his side so they are lying face to face. 

“Take all of this off,” Will tugs at his sleeve, “I want to feel you.”

“You don’t have to,” Hannibal says, voice raw and strained.

“I want to,” he answers against his mouth. 

Will kisses him slowly as he helps Hannibal undress, tasting himself on his tongue. One of his hands roams down his body, caressing and exploring every bit of uncovered flesh, mapping out old scars and firm muscle. Hannibal takes a steadying breath as it slides between his legs.

“Will,” Hannibal whispers, and it sounds like a psalm. 

“Just show me how.”

Hannibal covers his hand with his own, guiding it up and down slowly at first and then harder, faster. Will kisses every patch of skin he can reach and it doesn’t take long until Hannibal starts losing composure. His breathing quickens and he seems to forego any sort of rhythm entirely, thrusting into their conjoined hands and chasing his release with short erratic strokes. 

He stares straight into Hannibal’s eyes as he spills between them, a soft sigh and Will’s name on his lips.

Hannibal rolls on his back, bringing Will with him so that his head is resting on his chest. He presses an ear to his heart, listens to it eventually slow down, and closes his eyes. Hannibal runs his clean hand through Will’s wild curls, his touch soothing and grounding. They stay like that for a while, silent but for the sound of their breathing, utterly spent and blissed out. 

He must have passed out for a moment, because the next thing he feels is a damp towel against his skin, cleaning him up. He sighs and stretches, letting Hannibal work on him, shivers when he feels him press against a bruise forming on his inner thigh. 

“Enough,” Will struggles to keep his eyes open for more than a split second, “come here.”

He stretches his arms towards him and registers the faint sound of the towel falling to the floor before Hannibal is on the bed again, kissing him carefully and rearranging them so he can pull the sheets over the both of them. He holds unto him like a drowning man, chest to chest and fingers tracing the faint outline of the Verger brand on his back. He wants to ask about it, he wants to say a lot of things, but his body feels delightfully heavy and the only thing he can manage to do is press a little bit closer and bury his face on the curve of Hannibal’s neck. 

“Sleep,” Hannibal tells him, and kisses his forehead, “it’s been a long day.”

Will is already dozing off when he mutters, “Might wanna take me dancing more often.”

Hannibal laughs, soft and easy. “You just need to ask.”

-

He wakes up from a dreamless sleep with the first rays of sunlight. The morning air is cold against his bare skin, making him want to curl up and stay in bed for at least a couple of hours more. There’s a deliciously warm body pressed against his back, firm and inviting, and he instinctively shifts closer to it. He’s welcomed into it with a strong arm around his waist. He feels a soft kiss on the back of his neck as images from the past night come back to him in waves. He takes in his surroundings in a half-asleep haze; different bed than usual, different room and—  _ Oh,  _ he thinks,  _ Hannibal. _

He reluctantly pries himself away from the embrace to turn around and face him. Hannibal is already looking at him, eyes lidded and lips slightly parted. 

“Good morning,” he says, voice thick with sleep.

Will leans in to kiss him. Because he can, because he’s allowed to, because Hannibal looks sleepy and vulnerable and he can’t believe he gets to have this now. 

“Morning,” Will mutters against his lips. 

“It’s still early, you can go back to sleep if you want.”

Will answers by shaking his head and climbing on top of him. “I’m up.”

Hannibal looks up at him, fond and amused, sunlight drawing soft shadows across his face. Will lowers himself to kiss his temple, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth. When Hannibal cranes his neck up to kiss him back Will sits up, a playful smirk on his lips. 

Hannibal raises his eyebrows and effortlessly flips them around, effectively pinning him down to the mattress, the muscles on his back straining as he leans down to nip at his neck. 

“Still making me chase after you?” 

Will sighs and runs a hand down his side, “It is a comforting thought.”

“That I could never stop looking for you?” Hannibal relaxes his arms and lays down on top of him. The entire weight of his body against his should be uncomfortable; it isn’t, it just feels right. 

“That you will always find me.”

“Remarkable boy,” Hannibal whispers, “you hold my heart in your hands.”

They hold each other as the sun rises and the room is bathed in golden light. It promises to be a beautiful day. 

"I believe I've dreamt you. Dreamt this. Many times, even before we'd met," Hannibal says after a while.

“Did you always picture us ending up here?”

“My vision of us kept shifting,” Hannibal looks up at the ceiling, “you kept changing it.” 

“You once told me you could never predict me.” 

“I still can’t,” he offers him a small smile. “It’s terrifying. And thrilling.”

Will thinks of every decision he has taken, culminating in this very moment. He’s not sure any other outcome was ever possible. Not even certain death had been able to stop it. 

“I’ll make sure to keep you on your toes, then.”

“Perhaps refrain from trying to kill us again,” the corners of Hannibal’s lips lift and his eyes glisten, “without discussing it with me first, at the very least.”

Will laughs, loud and carefree. “You have a deal.”

-

They drive back to Punta del Este late in the afternoon, the sun is already setting against the horizon when they reach the house. Will decides to take a walk while Hannibal prepares dinner. They had spent the majority of the day in bed, ordering room service, trading lazy touches and talking about nothing in particular, and he feels both restless and relaxed. The sand under his feet is warm after being exposed to the sun for hours, and he finds himself longing for summer. He thinks of long days on the beach, far away from the noises of the city and the buzz of tourists, Hannibal sprawled next to him with a book in his hands, sunkissed and glowing, nothing but the sounds of the ocean for miles, late nights under a sea of stars. 

Hannibal is setting the table outside when he comes back, their porch illuminated only by some scattered candles and soft music coming out of an open window. Hannibal almost drops a plate when he greets him with a quick peck. 

Will laughs. “You need to get used to that.” 

Now that he has given himself permission to touch, he’s not planning on stopping any time soon.

“I don’t think I ever will,” Hannibal says as he frames his face and kisses him deeply. 

-

After dinner Will lingers in front of his bedroom door for a while before finally deciding on grabbing some of his clothes and heading to Hannibal’s. He finds him already in bed, tablet in his hands, hair damp and smelling faintly of coconut and vanilla. He looks up to him and smiles.

“Mind if I join you?”

Hannibal scoots to the side without saying a word, invitation clear in his eyes. Will changes into his sleepwear, folds his clothes, leaves them on the first chair he can find and crawls into bed with him.

Hannibal immediately moves to wrap an arm around his shoulders, bringing him close to him. Will settles against his chest, a strange sense of belonging cursing through his body, and breathes it all in:

Their room, their bed, their lives. 

Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand we're done!  
> thank you so much for sticking around!! this chapter took me longer than i expected and also its my first time writing a sex scene so it might not be the best... sorry.  
> but anyway, i had a lot of fun writing this and i could be tempted into continuing the series if anyone's interested in that so lmk !  
> find me on twitter at @vlvtgoidmine and @orqheus and on tumblr at hwinter.tumblr.com  
> love you!!


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